


Ink

by green_violin_bow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Emotional Constipation, Gentle Angst with a Happy Ending, I promise, M/M, Mycroft has a lot of trouble with the whole concept of soulmates, Soul Bond, Soulmates AU, Unresolved Emotional Tension, background Johnlock, poor Greg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-06-24 07:48:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 13,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15626100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_violin_bow/pseuds/green_violin_bow
Summary: Greg and Mycroft – it seems – are soulmates, although Mycroft finds the whole concept difficult to accept. But this chance has been a long time coming, and Greg can't easily give it up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an ongoing story that's been a Tumblr ficlet series all along – that's why the chapters are of rather uneven lengths. It's getting rather unwieldy and I've had a request to put it up here, so. I hope you enjoy it ❤️

The marks dust the backs of Mycroft’s fingers, from the knuckles to the fingertips of his right hand. Other people’s marks are deep black; his own are a lattice of lightly-brushed lines, a delicate pencil sketch where others have puddles of ink.

As he settles into the back seat of his car, Mycroft draws off his gloves and brushes rain from his coat, putting his umbrella to one side. It’s as he’s reaching for his phone he notices the lattice of striking, bright colour etched across the backs of his fingers.

For a moment, his brain simply cannot comprehend what has happened. He turns his hand in the light from the car window, as though a different angle might show him the monotone he is used to, rather than the riot of colour he can see now.

Nothing changes.

_My – soulmate,_ thinks Mycroft, slowly. _But – how? When?_ His heart squeezes and trips in his chest.

He tries to think back, to understand, and then –

This fragile sketch of a soulmate mark is what you get, it seems, when someone – a silver-haired Detective Inspector in the London Met, for example – catches the umbrella your deliberately provoking younger brother has made you drop. When the touch, as the umbrella is returned to your hand, skims lightly across the back of your gloved fingers.

Mycroft takes a deep breath and, slowly, presses his multicoloured fingers to his lips.

His heart beats, strong and quick, in his chest.

_Well._

*

Greg stands in the rain, left hand curled protectively into a fist, a multicoloured secret staining his fingertips.

Rain streams down his face, but he doesn’t blink.

“Greg?” asks John, with an uncomfortable laugh. “Oi. You alright?”

As if from a distance, Greg can hear Sherlock sighing impatiently, calling for John. “Yeah. See you later,” mumbles Greg, turning away. 

_Fuck. Fucking hell._ He’d almost _felt_ it happen: tendrils of colour curling through the whorls of his fingerprints. Now the only question that remains is what on earth to do about it. 

Greg’s always had an eye for Mycroft Holmes’ sharp suits and sharper manner, but the man’s hardly likely to welcome a visit from him, especially one where Greg makes some kind of… _claim_ upon him. 

In the car, Greg locks the doors and slowly opens his fist. The mark is even brighter now, red and pink, purple and blue, vibrant against his tanned skin. 

_It must look so dark on him,_ he thinks dazedly. _He’s so pale._ And something curls in his stomach, at that: _my mark, on his skin._


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft keeps his distance.

It feels as though every cell in Greg’s body is aware of him, fifty metres away, arguing silently with his brother next to the discreet black car.

_Black leather gloves._ Somehow, Greg has never felt more naked. The multicoloured marks on his fingertips seem to scream out to the world, and he buries his hands firmly in his coat pockets.

It’s been a long week, filled with the curiosity of his colleagues (“Oh, boss! Who is it then?” Sally had gasped, eyeing his fingers. “Took you long enough. I thought it’d never happen, at your age.” He’d given her a newly-colourful one-finger salute, for that) and the more sensitive, but no less prying, concern of his sister and her husband. Their story is so uncomplicated – a blind date that developed quickly into more when their marks blossomed into colour – and Greg can’t face telling them that he can’t imagine a happy ending to his own situation.

Mycroft looks up, gaze sharp, and the world seems to shift slightly beneath Greg’s feet. Caught staring, he flushes, embarrassment tinging his cheeks, but does not look away.

Eventually, Mycroft drops his gaze, hands restless on the handle of his umbrella. Sherlock frowns crossly, evidently finding his brother an unsatisfactory sparring partner.

_He’s not as calm as usual. He can’t concentrate._ Greg’s breath catches in his throat.

“Anything else you want from the SOCOs, before they go, sir?” calls Headley, and Greg shakes his head.

“Nah, s'alright,” he returns, but Sherlock’s rolling his eyes.

“Yes, obviously,” he snaps, leaving his brother’s side.

Greg sighs. “Just tell ‘em what you need then, Sherlock. But they’re not expediting it,” he adds, over his shoulder, as he walks towards Mycroft.

“But –” Sherlock’s voice is indignant.

“No,” Greg throws back. “They’re already rushing some work for me. This is lower priority.”

“What could possibly be –”

“Another case,” says Greg, on autopilot, rolling his eyes. “You’re not involved.” He’d probably spoken too quietly for Sherlock to hear but the blood is thundering in his ears as he gets closer to Mycroft and the distance between them seems both too short and unbearably far.

The elder Holmes brother does not look up. He is absolutely still, seeming perfectly composed. _Maybe he just didn’t want to play Sherlock’s games,_ thinks Greg. _He’s not bothered at all that he’s – that we’ve found our soulmate. He’s just – not interested._

_Some people do resist their soul bonds._ Greg’s heart feels cold, heavy in his chest at the thought. Something in him desperately wants to take Mycroft’s hand in his own, examine the marks, fit their fingers together –

_Impossible._ He offers his right hand, instead, for a handshake. “Mr Holmes.” His voice is as casual as he can make it.

Slowly, Mycroft extends his gloved right hand and clasps Greg’s. Reluctantly, it seems, he glances up; his piercing grey eyes are full of – Greg would say _fear_ if he didn’t know any better – his lips a thin, set line.

“Detective Inspector,” he says, withdrawing his hand. “My apologies. An urgent meeting.” He is in the car before Greg can get his bearings.

Greg blinks, heart hammering. _Not composed,_ says a small, hopeful voice in his head. _Not indifferent._


	3. Chapter 3

It is at the end of their morning briefing session that Anthea adds, tonelessly, “one last matter, sir.”

Mycroft looks up, and places his pen precisely in the central fold of his notebook. “Yes?”

“I have received a request from Detective Inspector Lestrade for a meeting with you. When would be most convenient?”

Anthea has, without a doubt, noticed the change in the colour of his soul mark. It is a testament to her training that he had not observed her do so. To have worn gloves in the office would have drawn attention in itself, but for the past week he has undergone an agony of self-consciousness.

No-one has so far dared to comment.

_It seems unfair that there should be no differentiation in soul marks – some sort of confirmation of whether a bond has been successfully formed. To all intents and purposes, it appears that I am now part of a happy couple. It can be only a matter of time until whispers spread, and enquiries are made. I cannot imagine that the Detective Inspector would be pleased to have such rumours circulating._

Mycroft clears his throat. “Was there any indication as to the purpose of such a meeting?”

“No, sir. I had assumed it would pertain to your brother.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “I am sure it will not require too long an interview. Perhaps if you could check whether the Inspector is able to set aside a few minutes around six this evening.”

“Certainly, sir.” The door closes behind Anthea with a discreet _click._

Mycroft looks down at the delicate tracing of marks across the backs of his fingers. He hasn’t been able to stop looking at them for a week. _A soulmate._ With the mark, he had known, of course, that he must have one; but some people never meet their soulmate, destined to live separate lives without coinciding. He had assumed that he was a logical candidate for such an end, without any particular interest in altering it.

_Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Kind and loyal to Sherlock, despite years of frankly provoking behaviour. Divorced – a wife who had cheated on him, repeatedly, until one such liaison had led her by chance into the arms of her soulmate._ Mycroft runs his pen through his fingers, an absent, repetitive motion. _Lestrade lives a quiet life, when not working. But mostly, he seems to work._

He had read the security briefings – regularly updated for every person in close contact with Sherlock – yesterday. He had told himself it was a routine check.

_A handful of friends – some of them colleagues – with whom he visits the pub, or occasionally a football game. His sister and her family; regular visits to their house at the weekend, and infrequent occasions on which his nieces come to stay. Regularly works overtime during the week, and often volunteers for additional work during bank holidays and – particularly – Christmas._

Mycroft thinks about the occasions on which he and Lestrade have met. Passing files to one another. Cups of coffee in the hospital. Whisky, once, late at night, worried about a missing Sherlock. _And yet – never quite_ –

Mycroft’s laptop pings quietly as the calendar meeting update for 6pm comes through.

_Now this._ Mycroft’s stomach feels cold and heavy. He runs the pad of his thumb across his soul mark.

_What on earth does one say in a situation such as this?_ He presses his lips together, drawing a deep breath in through his nose. _Perhaps by common consent it simply will not be mentioned. He, like I, cannot possibly see any value in pursuing what is, after all, essentially a superstition. A folk tale which manifests itself, against all biological sense, upon our bodies._

_Especially not with me._


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft is pouring tea when Anthea opens the door. “Detective Inspector Lestrade, sir.”

“Thank you, Anthea,” he returns, tonelessly. He waits for her to shut the door. “Tea, Lestrade?” Pouring milk, he does not look up.

“Oh, yeah, ta,” says Lestrade, approaching the desk. _The man moves with such easy confidence,_ thinks Mycroft, unable to stop himself observing out of the corner of his eye. “C’n I –” Lestrade motions to the chair facing Mycroft’s desk.

“Please,” returns Mycroft with chilly politeness. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Just milk, ta. Plenty.”

Mycroft keeps his eyelashes lowered as he goes through the motions of making a decent cup of tea. Nonetheless his gaze is drawn inexorably to Lestrade’s hands, heart speeding as he tries to find the mark. _It must be on his left hand._ He cannot see it.

“Thanks,” says Lestrade, accepting the cup – _maddening man_ – with his right hand. He is still wearing his coat.

Mycroft feels horribly conscious of the treacherous marks dusting the backs of his fingers. He concentrates his attention on his cup of tea. “With what may I help you, Detective Inspector?” he asks, as calmly as he can.

“Greg,” says Lestrade, firmly. “I think the situation warrants that, don’t you?”

Mycroft looks at him obliquely, transferring his gaze quickly to the teapot when Lestrade attempts to catch his eye. He licks his lips. “Situation,” he says, impassively.

Lestrade holds up his left hand, fingers splashed with vibrant colour. “This.” Mycroft’s heart lurches.

He clears his throat, looking fixedly at the tabletop. His cheeks are growing hot. “It – confers no obligation,” he says, quietly.

“No, not –” Lestrade pauses. “’M’not –” he sighs. “No. No obligation. But maybe…”

Mycroft glances up, briefly, chest tight.

Lestrade’s eyes are deep, soft brown. “No harm in trying, is there?” he asks, with a lopsided smile that lights his entire face.

Mycroft’s heart turns slowly in his chest. “‘Trying’?” he asks.

Lestrade looks at him, dark eyes knowing. “Come out with me. A drink.”

Mycroft attempts to stop his eyebrows rising in surprise. “The marks are a _fairytale,_ Lestrade,” he says, woodenly.

“Greg,” returns Lestrade, amused.

Mycroft presses his lips together. “Why should we obey the prompting of a biological aberration?”

Lestrade looks at him for slightly longer than Mycroft is comfortable with, head tipped to the side. “Are you with someone?”

Mycroft almost laughs in surprise. _Absurd._ “No.”

“Neither am I. So. Why _shouldn’t_ we?”

Mycroft opens his mouth, and closes it again. He has no idea what to say.

Lestrade laughs, softly. “God knows I’m aware I’m prob’ly not your type, Mycroft. I’m more M&S than –” he gestures to Mycroft’s suit, “– whatever that is. More chips and a pint than champagne and lobster. But…” he holds up his left hand again. “Something says it’d work. Really, _really_ work.”

Mycroft clears his throat. “And you wish to…” _With me?_

“What’ve we got to lose?” asks Lestrade, gently, and there’s no hint of derision in his voice. “One date, hmm? If you can’t stand it after that, then –” he shrugs. “Alright.”

_If_ I _cannot stand it?_

Mycroft takes a sip of tea he does not want, simply to buy himself some time. He can hardly swallow. His throat seems to have forgotten how.

“A – drink?” he says, at last.

Lestrade’s smile beams out once again, his dark eyes crinkling. “Yeah. When can you do? Friday?”

Mycroft blinks. “Eight pm.”

“Great.” Lestrade leans forward, picking up Mycroft’s block of Post-It notes and a pen. He scribbles down his phone number and places them neatly back on the desk. “Text me, yeah? You can choose where.”

Mycroft takes a silent, deep breath. “Very well.”

Lestrade puts his teacup back on the tray. “I should let you get on.” He stands up.

Mycroft, feeling rude for remaining seated, does the same.

Lestrade turns back, suddenly. He steps around the desk, eyes wide and deep. A moment of hesitation, then, “can I see it?”

Slowly, heart hammering, Mycroft holds out his right hand. Lestrade takes it in his. Their marks meet, brightly-splashed colour skimming finely-etched lines.

Lestrade’s long, dark eyelashes are lowered. He looks at their hands for a long, breathless moment, seemingly fascinated.

Before Mycroft can register what is happening, Greg has pressed his lips softly to Mycroft’s mark, and turned away.

“Friday,” is all he says, before he closes the door.


	5. Chapter 5

Greg wakes from a nightmare at five on Friday morning. He rubs his eyes and blinks them open, determined not to fall back into the grey, dragging dream.

It’s only once his breathing has returned to normal that he notices the tiny light blinking on his mobile. He reaches over, unplugs it, and squints as the screen brightens.

**[04:52] The Vernet, 8pm. MH**

Greg feels suddenly very, very awake. Honestly, having heard nothing from Mycroft, he’d been expecting a call from the PA, saying their date won’t be happening after all.

_Well. Guess I have him to thank for waking me up, then._

**[05:07] Ten to five, Mycroft? Really? Look forward to seeing you later. G**

He smiles as he sends it.

**[05:10] My apologies. I have a long meeting this morning during which no communication will be possible. MH**

Greg rubs his eyes and pulls himself up into a sitting position. Having witnessed the brothers’ verbal sparring on many an occasion, he’d half-expected a Sherlockian ‘put your phone on silent next time’.

**[05:11] Only kidding. You already on your way to work then? G**

**[05:13] Yes. MH**

_Jesus. Surprised he didn’t have to schedule me in for sometime next month._

He Googles the Vernet. It’s a posh-looking bar, but weirdly there’s not that much information about it online. _Hope it’s not going to be full of bankers drinking their bonuses on a Friday evening._

**[05:14] Ugh. Too early! Hope the meeting goes well. See you later. G**

Thank god, the day involves getting out of his office, chasing up a few leads on a case. _Wouldn’t’ve been able to cope, sitting there watching the clock._ Greg’s stomach squirms with nerves every time he thinks about the evening.

By seven, he’s ready to call it a day, too distracted by the upcoming date. He decides to walk over to Vauxhall, across the river and along Embankment.

He meanders on purpose; it’s only really a half-hour walk. The air is crisp, falling towards dusk. He pulls his phone out of his pocket a few times, still half-expecting a cancellation, but there’s been nothing.

_What if we just…don’t get on? We’re supposedly soulmates – we must be – but he seemed pretty hostile to the whole idea. Maybe it just – won’t work._

The thought makes his heart ache painfully. He looks down at the splash of colour on his left hand.

His sister always says that meeting Gary felt like coming home; instantly comfortable, like he’d understand anything she could ever say, or have already have thought it himself.

He’d asked her to try and think back, to try and figure out what it felt like before they’d discovered the marks, but it had happened so quickly after they met, she hadn’t really been able to answer. “It almost feels like…there never was any ‘before’,” she’d said, frowning slightly. “I don’t feel like I was myself until I met him.”

Greg flinches just thinking about it. _What’ve I been for forty-eight years, then? Can it really be that great? And what if Mycroft wants none of it? What am I supposed to do? Just – carry on, knowing I was that close to something so…knowing my chance is gone?_ He grits his teeth, chest tight with anxiety.

He emerges from his reverie enough to realise he’s just walked past the bar, and retraces his steps. Glancing down at his watch, he finds it’s still ten to. _Newsagent across the street. Time to get a pack of cigs and have one, just about. Steady my nerves._

“I should not recommend it, Lestrade,” says Mycroft’s voice, next to him.

“Jesus Christ,” says Greg, turning to face him. _God, the navy coat. Why does he always look this good?_ “How the hell do you do that?”

“To what do you refer?”

“The mind-reading. And the sneaking up, come to that.”

“I walked from my car, with no attempt at secrecy whatsoever. You were simply so engrossed in thoughts of obtaining, and smoking, cigarettes that you failed to notice.” Mycroft’s chin is held haughtily high as he speaks, but there’s a spark of amusement in his grey eyes that makes Greg grin.

“Yeah, yeah, alright. At the risk of causing a full-on Holmes deduction, then, what gave me away?”

Mycroft presses his lips together, clearly not pleased with the comparison. “You glanced at your watch, to the newsagent, at the traffic, to the traffic lights further down the street, and ran your thumb across your lips.”

_Yeah, and I look really fucking nervous, which Sherlock would’ve said, but you’re too polite to._

Greg smiles up at him. “I’ve given up, really. Properly. I just – y’know. Long day.”

Mycroft nods, and Greg’s probably imagining it, but maybe there’s sympathy in the slight flicker of a smile.

“Shall we?” asks Greg, taking a deep breath. He motions to the bar.

“Certainly,” returns Mycroft, gravely.


	6. Chapter 6

The bar really _isn’t_ busy, even though it’s Friday night. It’s posh – wood panelling, discreetly low lighting, waiters dressed in the kind of suits Greg’s never even dreamed of owning – but comfortable, somehow.

“Is that –” hisses Greg, recognising a high-profile Peer.

“Yes,” murmurs Mycroft, as the waiter ushers them to their seats in a secluded booth. “Do not make eye contact, please. Even the barest interaction will ensure that we spend _at minimum_ the next hour and a half bored beyond endurance.”

Greg snorts a quiet laugh. “Alright.” The waiter takes his coat and hands him a drinks menu.

Mycroft does not receive one. For a moment Greg’s surprised, and about to share his, then – “oh,” he says, twigging at last. “This place is members-only, isn’t it? He knows exactly what you’re going to have to drink, even before you do.”

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth tips up. “Naturally. A few moments, please,” he adds, to the waiter.

The drinks menu is massive: choices to be made about every element. Greg looks up at Mycroft and gives a slightly nervous grin. “What’re you having?”

Mycroft points out a fine sipping whisky. _This menu doesn’t have prices,_ thinks Greg.

“Can I just have the same?” he asks, closing the leather-bound book. “No clue what half these things are.”

For a moment, Mycroft’s expression flickers, complicated.

Greg could kick himself. _Failed some sort of posh-test, probably._

“You enjoy whisky?” asks Mycroft awkwardly, at last.

“Yeah,” smiles Greg. “Not in any connoisseur sort of way. Obviously.”

Mycroft nods, once, avoiding his gaze. “Then you could not do better.”

Greg presses the palm of his hand to the cold leather of the booth’s bench. “I’m just pleased you chose a sipping whisky,” he says, with a smile.

Mycroft’s eyebrow lifts, slightly.

“Well,” says Greg. “You could’ve gone for a shot. Get ‘one drink’ over and done with quick-sharp. Annoying policeman out of your hair for good.”

Mycroft’s grey gaze meets his, eyes crinkling; startled into a genuine smile. “I had not considered the matter in that light.”

“Well, pretend I never said anything then.”

The waiter returns, and Mycroft passes back the menu. “Two of the usual. Thank you.”

“Good day?” asks Greg, determined not to allow silence to fall between them. “Your meeting go alright?”

Mycroft’s gaze flicks to his for a moment, and Greg might be reading it wrong but he thinks there’s surprise in his expression – _at the question? But he just told me this morning he had a meeting. Was I not meant to ask – security or something?_

_Or – is he just not used to people asking about his day?_

“Quite well, thank you,” says Mycroft, stiffly. Then, “and – your day?”

Greg sighs and rubs his eyes. “Fine, yeah – the usual, really. Out interviewing most of the day. Better than paperwork.”

The waiter puts their drinks in front of them, nods and glides away.

“So –” says Greg, looking around. “This place is…” he searches for the word.

“Possibly a poor choice,” says Mycroft, wrapping long fingers around his glass.

“No,” says Greg, smiling. “You wanted to see how I’d cope,” he adds, a bit cheekily.

Mycroft glances up, pressing his lips together. “You are, it appears, an astute judge of character.”

Greg grins. “You knew that already. Who else has put up with Sherlock for this long, mm?”

Mycroft’s eyes are terribly serious. “Indeed.”

Greg holds out his glass. “An’ I was right. Look at him now. Cheers.” The whisky is, without doubt, the best he has ever tasted. It slides down like fire, like smoke.

Mycroft holds up his own glass briefly. “Cheers.” He takes a sip.

“Can’t say I know what to do with myself in here though,” smiles Greg. “Bit posher than my usual haunts.” He glances around. “Pretty much everyone in here’s a politician, right?”

“Yes,” says Mycroft, back straight. He watches Greg with interest.

“Do they even let women _in?”_

Mycroft’s wry smile flickers quickly across his lips. “There are several women who hold memberships. As my assistant puts it, however, ‘they tend to find the spectacle of the sexist old boys’ network whispering to one another both oppressive and stultifying’.“ He manages to place the air quotes perfectly with tone.

Greg laughs, quietly. “Alright. Makes sense.”

Mycroft blinks as he looks down into his whisky. His fingers, finely etched with colour – _my mark, his and mine_ – are restless on the side of the fine cut glass.

“Has –” Greg can hardly take his eyes away. He clears his throat slightly. “Has anyone…asked you about it?”

“No,” returns Mycroft quickly, coldly. He glances up, then away, pressing his lips together. “I – have not seen Sherlock, of course.”

Greg smiles. “Yeah. I’ve spent the week wondering when he’s going to turn up, an’ if I ought to start wearing gloves. The team at work’ve done nothing but take the piss.” His heart thumps painfully. _He’s going to shut this down, isn’t he? He’s not interested, and I’m not persuading him otherwise._ He hesitates. “Listen, I’m – I know this is really –” he says, before he has time to think. “I know it’s a bit – awkward, and – strange, but…I really appreciate you trying it anyway. Doing this.” He lowers his voice still further, leans forward. “I know I’m probably nowhere near your – type, but –” he shrugs. “I’d like to get to know you. See if we could have a shot.”

Mycroft is looking down at the table, but his eyelashes flutter.

_Fucking hell, is he – blushing?_

Greg’s stomach twists and he looks quickly down at his glass, at the whisky that’s dwindling too fast.

“I know we said one drink,” he says, urgently, “but it’s – it’s quiet here an’ I assume you’re not interested in talking about – _all this_ –” he opens his own hand, laying bare his mark, “with that lot around –” he takes a breath. “We could – we’re not far from the river. We could walk. When we finish these, I mean,” he adds, awkwardly.

Mycroft meets his gaze for a moment, eyes piercing, seeking sincerity. “Very well,” he says, at last. “I – should like that. Greg.”


	7. Chapter 7

"Happy to just – walk towards the river, then?” asks Greg, descending the steps at the front of the bar with casual, fluid motions.

_So comfortable in his own skin._ “Certainly,” returns Mycroft, motioning to his driver not to follow them.

Greg nods at the car. “They follow you around and wait for you everywhere?”

“Almost everywhere,” returns Mycroft calmly.

“Security,” says Greg, without really asking a question.

Mycroft does not respond aloud; he turns the corner of his mouth up wryly. _Why does his presence make me want to smile?_ He flexes his fingers slightly. His gloves are back on, but the feeling that his hand should be _in Gregory’s_ stays with him.

“We’ll come out near the Tower if we go this way,” says Greg. “Actually not the worst time to walk along there. Not as busy as usual.”

Mycroft assents by turning towards the river. He feels terribly self-conscious; and awfully _aware_ of the man by his side.

“You can stop me buying cigarettes on the way,” sighs Greg.

Mycroft looks at him obliquely. “You assured me that you had given up.” He had intended it as a slightly facetious remark, but to his own ears it sounds merely stuffy.

“Yeah, well, nervous, aren’t I?” says Greg amusedly, startlingly forthright.

Mycroft looks away, down the street. _He is nervous?_

“Aren’t you?” asks Greg, with an awkward huff of laughter.

_Horribly._

_How does he so easily share his emotions with others?_

“Perhaps,” murmurs Mycroft, hardly moving his lips. They walk in silence for a few moments.

“So…what are you up to this weekend?” asks Greg.

Mycroft presses his lips together, and rolls his eyes.

“What?” Greg is grinning now. “You got to have Sunday lunch with Sherlock or something?”

Mycroft sighs. _Am I truly_ – “perhaps worse,” he says, reluctantly.

Greg laughs. _“Worse?”_

Mycroft suppresses the temptation to smile. “Our parents.”

Greg’s watching him sidelong as they walk. “Visiting?”

“Yes.” Mycroft sighs. “Naturally Sherlock will not house them, so I shall do so, as usual.”

Greg snorts a laugh. “God. Sorry.”

“As you can imagine, I am not eager to face their questions –” he looks away. “A national emergency is planned.”

“What, so you’re spending all weekend working, just to avoid questions about your mark?”

Mycroft shoots him a look, eyes narrowed. “It is evident that you have never found yourself subject to interrogation from my mother.”

“Ha. Alright.” Greg nods towards the river. “Talking of. Getting near the Tower.”

Mycroft clears his throat slightly. “Perhaps –” he says, hesitantly.

“Mm?” Greg’s brown eyes are deep as he looks up at him.

“There is – just down this road –” Mycroft pauses. “It is quiet.”

“Yeah?” asks Greg. They approach the unassuming stone doorway. “What is it? Park, or something?”

“Effectively, now,” murmurs Mycroft, as they step inside. It is silent, a haven of quiet in the centre of the city.

“A ruined church,” says Greg, wonderingly. “I never knew this was here.” His hand on Mycroft’s arm almost makes him jump. “C’mon. Let’s sit.”

The light from the surrounding streets glows through the ivy-clad fretwork of stone, a yellow city gloaming.

“Can’t believe how quiet it is in here,” says Greg, taking a seat on a wooden bench.

“It remains surprisingly so, even during the working day,” returns Mycroft, calmly. “It was bombed, and never rebuilt.”

“You come here sometimes?” asks Greg, and he’s turned towards Mycroft on the bench.

Mycroft feels suddenly very _watched._ “Sometimes,” he says, looking away.

An awkward pause.

“Listen, Mycroft,” says Greg, in a rush. “Thanks. For this.”

Mycroft longs to examine Greg’s hand, his mark. Sometimes he thinks he will feel the imprint of Greg’s kiss on his own fingers forever.

He keeps his gaze firmly set on the rough, broken stone of an archway.

Greg’s voice, when he speaks again, is full of – _fear?_ _Yes, fear._ Mycroft’s heart could burst from his chest. He wants to _assuage._

“D’you think – is there…” Greg takes a breath. “We could – keep doing this. If you wanted.”

Mycroft’s heart squeezes. “The marks,” he says, through a dry throat. “They are –”

“I know you don’t believe in it,” says Greg, quickly.

“It is – disconcerting to find myself in such a situation,” says Mycroft, firmly, and perhaps the whisky has loosened his tongue because he continues to speak. “There is, of course, the – biological draw, which I understand is natural –” he presses his lips into a flat line. _I want to take his hand. Kiss his mark in return._ “Does it not –” his voice sounds cold in the ivy-clad ruins. “I find it disturbing to be _directed_ in so – animal a fashion.”

He glances to Greg, briefly, almost afraid to see his expression. Light falls across his face, creating deep pools of shadow. His silver hair glints nearly gold in this light.

“Kind of like _any_ attraction though, right?” asks Greg, thoughtfully.

“Yet invested with such –” Mycroft swallows, “– weight of expectation.” Greg does not speak, and he is afraid to look up again. The calm twilight of the ruins breathes silently around them. “I am by no means soulmate material,” says Mycroft, at last.

Greg leans forward, and his left hand touches the back of Mycroft’s right. _Gloves. Oh for the love of all that is good, why did I put them back on?_ Even in this light, Mycroft can see the edges of the bright splashes of colour on Greg’s fingertips.

“This means you are,” says Greg, quietly.

“It means _I have a_ –” Mycroft stops short of the word. “Not that I am in any way equipped to form a – some sort of – lasting bond.” The darkness, the intimate silence of the ruined church at night, is dangerous. _I could tell him anything, here. Tonight._ Greg’s eyes are dark, and terribly trusting.

“Please,” is all he says, and Mycroft looks down at his own hand, held gently between both of Greg’s.

_Yes. Or – no, but_ – Mycroft nods, once, and pulls his gloves off. He attempts to hide the catch in his breath, his shaky exhale, as Greg takes his hand again.

Gentle, bright-stained fingertips run over his mark, back and forth. Relief floods through Mycroft’s body, and he frowns.

“’M’sorry,’ sighs Greg. “I know it’s – ’s’weird not being able to control how you feel. I – I get that.”

Mycroft smiles sharply in the darkness. “My apologies that it should be me.”

Greg pins him with a look. “Don’t be stupid.” Mycroft fights the urge to bristle. “I know my soulmate. I – _we’ve_ got a chance. I couldn’t be luckier.”

Mycroft almost laughs, at that. “There are many people with whom this would be a much simpler and more pleasant experience.”

“Why d’you think I need ‘simple’?” asks Greg. “I don’t. And –” he looks at Mycroft, holds eye contact. Their fingers lace together, between them on the bench. “Don’t think I don’t get it. Someone as busy as you, as much to worry about. I know the value of your time, a night like this. I know it’s not nothing. It – could be more difficult, too.”

Mycroft’s heart races. “You know nothing about me.”

“More than you get, maybe. The important stuff.” Greg’s smile is complicated. “And I – you said there’s so much expectation – let’s just look at this like normal dating, yeah? It’s the same, really. You like the look of each other, so you meet up and see if you like each other as people, too. Or you’re already friends, but there’s something else there too, so you try it out. ’S’just the same.”

Mycroft’s hand feels warm and safe in Greg’s. His body seems to purr with a bone-deep sense of _rightness._

“Gregory…” he murmurs, in the darkness. Greg’s fingers tighten slightly on his. “I do not – _relationships_ are not –” _Deplorably expressed. At least attempt to finish your sentences._

“I haven’t been with anyone in ages, Mycroft,” returns Greg. “There’s no right and wrong here.” He swallows, audibly. “It doesn’t have to be – it can be whatever you want. Anything. For the record though –” he hesitates, and Mycroft can hear the warm smile in his voice, the way he dares himself to speak. “I think you’re gorgeous. Always have.”

Mycroft’s mouth goes dry, heart skipping a beat. _I had assumed – the wife – and there are platonic soulmates, of course_ –

“Sorry,” says Greg, sounding worried, seeking out Mycroft’s gaze. “I wasn’t – Christ, I wasn’t trying to add more pressure, or –”

Mycroft shakes his head. “No. Gregory.” He cannot find words. Instead he squeezes Greg’s hand.

“I like the way you say that.”

Mycroft looks up, and finds himself caught in the dark warmth of Greg’s gaze. “Pardon?”

“‘Gregory’. No-one calls me that.”

“I – my apologies –”

“No. No, I meant –” Greg smiles. “It’s yours.”


	8. Chapter 8

**[10:32] How’s your day so far?**

Greg almost shrugs as he sends the message. Leaning against his car, he’s waiting for Sally to finish talking to a possible witness. In a couple of minutes he’ll have to drive them back to the station, and it’s better this way. The drive’ll waste half an hour where he won’t be able to stare at his phone, willing it to vibrate with a return text.

It’s a grey day, neither sunny nor threatening rain. Greg’s mind keeps returning to the velvet quiet of the evening before, in their nighttime garden.

_Mycroft’s fingers, wound with mine._

Greg had refused a ride home in Mycroft’s car. They’d said goodbye, eventually, by the Tube. They did not walk holding hands, but their arms and shoulders touched, a kind of magnetism between them.

Mycroft seemed dazed, tired; and Greg’s mind had hummed with questions, with fears.

“Ready to go,” says Sally, breaking in on his train of thought. She’s trying the handle of the passenger door. “Locked, boss. C’n you –”

“Yeah,” he mutters, scrabbling in his pocket for his keys, clicking the key fob. “Any good?”

“Probably not,” she shrugs, as they get settled. “But we’ve got all his details. I’ve told him if he remembers anything else –” her phone rings, and she sighs. “Sorry, that’ll be the pathologist’s report.” She picks up. “Donovan.”

*

Back at the station, Greg walks to the Costa just down the road to pick up a sandwich and a coffee. Bit early for lunch, but he probably won’t get a chance later – interviewing and statements will take up most of the afternoon.

The bright splash of colour on his fingertips catches his attention as he hands over the cash. Even Sally’s stopped asking about his mark, now; he hasn’t told her anything. _Haven’t been able to. Not like I know what’s going to happen. Not like I want her opinion on my soulmate, either. Probably not complimentary, given what she thinks of Sherlock._

Walking up the stairs back to his desk, he thinks about checking his phone. It’s almost a game, now, though – an endurance test. _How long can I stop myself from checking my texts, where there absolutely won’t be a response from Mycroft Holmes?_

At his desk, he sips his coffee, checks his emails, and puts his phone on the desk next to him. It’s only a minute later he notices the tiny blinking light in its top corner.

_Probably nothing._

He takes another sip of coffee, which he doesn’t taste at all.

Almost casually, he unlocks his phone. _Probably nothing. Probably a spam email, or my sister checking up on me, or_ –

It’s a text. He opens it, heart beating harder than it should be, hardly daring to glance at the screen –

**[11:03] Acceptable, thank you, though busy. And yours? MH**

Greg blinks, and reads it again. Ten minutes ago, ish.

_He texted back. He texted back!_

**[11:16] Yeah, alright thanks. Had a good time last night. Hope you did too. Are you working to avoid your parents? :)**

He tears open the cardboard sandwich packet, suddenly finding a new enthusiasm for lunch.

**[11:17] I am working as I do every Saturday. The fact that our parents are currently seeing ‘Shrek: The Musical’ without me is coincidental. MH**

Greg snorts into his coffee. He can imagine Mycroft’s expression.

**[11:18] What kind of national emergency did you plead?**

**[11:18] That information is, I fear, classified. MH**

**[11:19] You’ll have to go home at some point though, surely? Are they staying over tonight too?**

**[11:20] Yes. I fear I shall not escape breakfast with them tomorrow morning. MH**

**[11:21] Nice :) Got a good breakfast place near you?**

**[11:22] A hotel near my flat does a passable one. MH**

**[11:22] Most important (and best!) meal of the day!**

**[11:23] You sound like my mother. MH**

Greg smiles, then sighs. _Wonder if I’ll ever get to cook him breakfast._

**[11:24] What’s your favourite meal then?**

There’s a pause while he eats half a sandwich and waits for a reply.

**[11:26] Left to myself? Afternoon tea, I fear. MH**

‘I fear’. _Why?_

**[11:27] Have you had afternoon tea at the portrait gallery? Went there with my sister recently. They do a good scone.**

**[11:27] I have not. MH**

**[11:28] Come with me sometime :)**

**[11:28] Why breakfast? MH**

**[11:28] Always really hungry. Loads of variety depending if you want sweet or savoury. Pancakes are amazing :) Why afternoon tea?**

**[11:29] Scones are a weakness of mine. MH**

**[11:29] Good to know you have one weakness, anyway. Well, two. Mycroft Holmes can be vanquished with scones and musical theatre :)**

**[11:30] I fear you know too much. MH**

**[11:30] Damn. When should I expect the assassins?**

**[11:32] I am sure you will not see them coming. MH**

**[11:33] Well, that’s comforting, in a way.**

**[11:34] I must go. Have a good day. MH**

Greg isn’t sure why ‘have a good day’ should make his heart race in his chest.

**[11:35] You too :)**


	9. Chapter 9

**[08:47] IMG_142328.jpg. MH**

Greg groans and peers blearily at his phone, wondering why on earth his alarm’s going off on a Sunday. It takes him way too long to work out that it’s actually just a text. He rolls into his back and rubs grumpily at his eyes as he opens the message.

Squinting at the screen, he finds a picture-perfect image of blueberry pancakes. He blinks, and then smiles, suddenly.

_He’s having breakfast._ His smile widens into a grin.

**[09:01] What the hell time do you call this, Holmes? x**

He puts his phone down on his chest; scrubs both hands over his face and up through his hair.

**[09:03] My parents were somewhat slow to ready themselves for leaving the house. MH**

Greg snorts a laugh.

**[09:04] You know exactly what I meant. It’s Sunday! Why are you even conscious?! x**

**[09:06] Am I to understand that you are lazing in bed at this advanced hour? MH**

**[09:07] LAZING? Cheeky bastard. It’s Sunday! Sundays are for lie-ins. x**

**[09:08] Nonsense, Gregory. Sundays can be just as productive as any other day of the week. MH**

**[09:09] Productive. Ridiculous. You need a proper lie-in. You’ll never go back. x**

**[09:09] By the way, thanks for making me jealous of your breakfast. Now I’m starving. x**

**[09:12] The pancakes are, I am told, delicious. MH**

**[09:13] You’re told? x**

**[09:14] My mother. MH**

**[09:15] A woman of taste! Although I’m surprised she can stay awake to eat them at this ungodly hour. x**

Greg hauls himself up to lean back against the headboard, grinning.

**[09:16] Would you have us partake of an American ‘brunch’, Gregory? I am not sure I could countenance it. MH**

**[09:17] Good lie-in, long slow brunch (with bubbly), home, back to bed, roast dinner later. Perfect Sunday. x**

**[09:20] I choose not to spend my Sundays worshipping at the altar of sloth. Not to mention gluttony. MH**

**[09:22] Can’t believe you woke me up at the crack of dawn just to insult me. What are you having for breakfast then? x**

**[09:24] Poached eggs on toast, fruit and spiced yoghurt, Assam tea. MH**

_Of course he specifies the kind of tea,_ thinks Greg. He catches himself smiling softly at his phone, then tips his hand to look at his mark.

**[09:25] Damn you, Mycroft. I’m going to have to get up, get dressed and go to the shop for stuff to make pancakes now. x**

**[09:26] That sounds productive. MH**

Greg grins and rolls his eyes.

**[09:27] Nah, don’t worry, it won’t be. I’ll go back to bed right after I’ve eaten them. x**

**[09:30] My mother informs me that if I continue to ‘play with’ my phone during breakfast, she will take it from me. MH**

**[09:31] Uh-oh, you’ve awakened the wrath of your mother. Better go. Text later though? x**

Greg taps at the edge of his phone, worrying at his bottom lip. _Too needy? Too much?_

**[09:32] Certainly. MH**

Greg’s heart squeezes in his chest and he takes a deep breath. _Right. Okay. Good._

_Maybe this is the way. Show him I just want to be his friend. Just want to know him. Talk to him._

_My soulmate._


	10. Chapter 10

"I bet it’s Anthea. She’s always seemed such a sensible girl, and terribly chic, of course, and you’ve been keeping her in designer shoes and handbags for years as it is anyway –”

Mycroft sighs, repressively, glancing around. _“Mother,”_ he hisses. “I had always been given to understand, not least by you and Father, that there is a little – _more_ to the soul bond than the simple exchange of expensive leather goods –”

Mummy rolls her eyes. “Oh, _yes,_ dear, you know perfectly well I’m only being facetious. But since you won’t tell us a thing about your soulmate –”

“Do be _quiet,_ Mummy.”

“Why?” she says, widening her eyes infuriatingly. “It’s all over your hand, dear. Everyone can see.”

Mycroft makes agonised eye contact with his father.

His father shrugs, slightly, and takes a sip of tea.

“There is nothing to tell. _Nothing.”_

“You must know who it is, though.”

Mycroft winces, looking down at his plate. “Yes,” he says, through gritted teeth.

“Then why not tell us, dear? What harm can it do? We’re so happy you’ve found your soulmate, you can’t imagine –”

“Someone from – work,” says Mycroft. _“Not_ Anthea,” he adds, hurriedly. “No-one you know.”

Mummy’s eyes are narrowed shrewdly. Father adjusts his glasses slightly on his nose.

“It will not be proceeding any further,” says Mycroft firmly. “A mere chance, nothing more. Not a match.”

Both his parents look shocked, and Mycroft takes advantage of their silence to attract a waiter and request the bill.

*

The text arrives just as Mycroft has finally – _finally_ – closed the door after his parents. He has a quite monumental stress headache.

His phone vibrates on the kitchen counter, but Mycroft finishes his glass of iced water before picking it up, hoping that being hydrated will at least start to reduce the pain behind his eyes.

**[12:43] Not sure if your parents have left yet? It’s a lovely day. There’s a pub over my way with a nice courtyard, if you fancy it? x**

Mycroft blinks. _I really ought to work,_ says a small voice in his head. _I cannot go anywhere with this headache._

All the same, there is an almost-physical ache spreading through him, in his hand, under his mark, behind his heart, that says: _please. Yes. Please._

He glances outside and realises that he will have to change. It had been relatively cool this morning, but by now the sun is full and bright in the sky. Mycroft grimaces. It looks strangely hot, for London.

**[12:48] I should enjoy that. MH**

His heart thumps in his chest as he sends the message.

He changes into a slim-cut light grey cotton suit. He’d eyed the linen first, but he knows that the precision of cut and material on this suit is more flattering. After some hesitation, he closes the drawer of ties and leaves his white shirt collar open at the neck.

**[12:54] Great. Meet on Shipton St? x**

Mycroft texts his driver and takes a deep breath.

**[12:56] At what time? MH**

**[12:57] Whenever’s good for you really. Not much of a walk for me, so just let me know how long it’ll take you. x**

Mycroft receives a notification that his driver is downstairs. He checks he has everything he needs – wallet, phones, keys – and goes to put his shoes on.

**[13:01] My driver estimates around forty minutes. MH**

**[13:02] Great :) See you in a bit! x**

Mycroft fidgets nervously in the back seat, resorting to his work phone to stave off thoughts about the afternoon ahead.

_It should not be so difficult for you. It is simply conversation. Nothing more. You have built your career on the maintenance of cordial – or at least balanced – relationships through conversation._

Fear twinges in the pit of Mycroft’s stomach.

_Pathetic._

Shipton Street is bustling, the flower market in full swing. Mycroft’s driver drops him off at the end of the road.

He sends a text as he makes his way slowly through the crowds.

**[13:45] I am here. MH**

**[13:46] Great. Just popped into a shop, won’t be a minute. Meet me outside the Nelson’s Head? x**

**[13:46] Certainly. MH**

Mycroft fiddles with his work phone as he waits, not quite daring to look up, glance around, suddenly filled with the sense that it would be unbearably awkward to watch Gregory walking towards him – with the fear that something might show in his own expression.

He hardly absorbs the words on the screen of his phone.

“Alright?”

Mycroft tries to control his slight jump as he feels Greg’s hand on his arm. He looks up quickly and finds deep brown eyes, crinkled at the edges with a warm smile.

He locks his phone and slips it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Yes, thank you. And – and you?” he holds out his right hand, as if to shake. The ache in his chest is suddenly stronger, on the edge of more than he can bear.

Greg slips his left hand under Mycroft’s; a strange, unfamiliar clasp. His fingers are warm and strong. Mycroft feels, suddenly, as though he can breathe for the first time in two days.

A warm shiver of comfort, of ease, ripples down his spine. _Our marks,_ he thinks. _He’s put our marks together._ He can almost feel himself back in the calm, cool quiet of their nighttime garden; the velvet-dewy air of dusk in the centre of the city.

_To be soothed in this way by the putting-together of skin._ Despite the wrench of his heart in his chest, he takes back his hand.

_It is like a drug._

Greg smiles gently at him. “Shall we go and get some drinks?”

Mycroft nods, once. “Yes, certainly.”


	11. Chapter 11

At the bar, Greg’s eyes slide – as always – to the small rainbow flag stuck up on a shelf behind a couple of bottles of whisky. It’s hardly noticeable, barring the well-known LGBT-themed nights, but it’s a friendly atmosphere. He and John often sink a few here.

“What can I get you?” the young bartender flashes them a quick smile, leaning in to hear their order. The pub’s packed with people getting Sunday lunch.

Greg glances at the taps, and grins. “Nightwatchman,” he says. “An’ –” he looks to Mycroft.

“The porter, please.”

Below the bar, Greg brushes his fingers gently across Mycroft’s. His stomach fizzes with anticipation, and with the strange calm excitement of bringing their marks together.

“You have found a very appropriate ale.” Mycroft’s hand does not move away.

Greg smiles. “Shouldn’t order ’em just for the name –” he shrugs. “Still.” He looks around. “Hope we’re going to be able to find somewhere to sit.”

“I believe I see a couple preparing to leave in the courtyard,” says Mycroft, making use of his height to peer out of the back door.

Greg nudges him. “Go on then! Quick.”

Mycroft hesitates a moment, eyes flicking to the bartender.

“You get the next,” smiles Greg. “Go’n get us a table.”

The loss of contact with Mycroft’s fingers feels like something tugging behind Greg’s heart.

“He’s done well to spot somewhere,” says the bartender, placing the pints in front of Greg. She takes his card and holds it to the card machine. “Always rammed on a Sunday.”

Greg takes it back, with a smile. “Cheers,” he says, picking up the pints.

The table is small; it is in the corner of the courtyard, shaded by a lilac plant that climbs the tattered red brick wall.

“’S’yours,” murmurs Greg, putting Mycroft’s pint down. He takes the chair opposite and holds his glass up. “Cheers.”

Mycroft touches the rim of his glass to Greg’s, then takes a tentative sip.

“You sure you don’t want lunch?” asks Greg. The Nightwatchman is tasty, dark and smooth.

“I assure you,” returns Mycroft. “I have had quite enough food for today. My mother did not heed my protests at breakfast.”

Greg gives a quick smile. “You must be glad to have your flat to yourself again.”

Mycroft’s only answer is a sigh and raised eyebrows. Greg wants, desperately, to take his hand again. To look at the mark. _My mark._ To feel the soft, warm reassurance that comes with proximity to his soulmate.

“How’s your week been?” asks Greg, and immediately wants to kick himself.

Mycroft glances up, eyes sharp with a kind of wincing amusement. “Turbulent,” he says, at last. His voice is half-humour, half-disapproval.

Greg’s heart sinks, but he can’t help a wry huff of laughter. “Sorry,” he says, with as much humour as he can.

Mycroft presses his lips together, staring at the uneven wood of the table. “This is – not a situation in which I expected to find myself,” he says, quietly. It sounds like an apology.

Greg watches the delicate twitch of a frown. He waits a moment, wanting Mycroft to look up. He doesn’t.

“You knew you had it. The mark,” says Greg, gently. “Didn’t you think – maybe –”

Mycroft turns his head, looking across the courtyard. He bites his lip before he speaks. “I did _not_ think of it. I did not consider its –” Mycroft hesitates. “Repercussions.”

Greg takes a gulp of his beer. He frowns, slightly. “But surely you’ve heard from – I don’t know, your parents, your brother –”

Mycroft’s gaze flicks quickly to him, but it’s gone again before Greg can truly catch it. “I assumed,” he says, “that there would be no –” he swallows, not seeming to know how to finish his sentence.

_What? You thought you and your soulmate could just go your separate ways?_ Greg reaches across the table, and touches his left index finger gently to Mycroft’s mark.

Mycroft jumps, slightly, but does not move away.

“’M’sorry,” says Greg, sincerely. “If I’ve made things difficult. I don’t – I don’t want to. But I –” he swallows. “I can’t just give up, either. It’s a chance, for me. That I’ve never had. An’ – that I’ve –” his throat is so tight he can hardly finish. “Wanted.”

Mycroft’s cheeks are tinged with pink. Their fingers – their marks – lie together on the tabletop.

“It is – hardly your fault,” says Mycroft, at length.

Greg’s heart squeezes, painfully. “Dunno,” he says, looking down at the table. “’F’this is – ’f’you don’t want this, then – ’m’just being kind of a nuisance.”

He feels Mycroft’s fingers twitch minutely beneath his own, then they are suddenly withdrawn. Mycroft’s voice is coldly blank when he speaks. “I cannot discuss this, here.” His grey eyes widen when Greg looks up at him. “You mentioned that it is a short walk to your home,” he adds, crisply.

Greg swallows. “Yes. Yeah.” _The place is probably a tip and it’s nowhere near grand enough for someone like_ –

Mycroft’s long fingers press against the edge of the table. “Then I should appreciate the chance to speak in private.”


	12. Chapter 12

Quiet hovers between them on the walk back to Greg’s flat, barring the occasional remark about small things – the weather, the area. Greg pushes his hands into his jeans pockets, not quite sure what to do with them.

It’s hot, afternoon sun beating down on the grey pavements of London.

“This is me,” says Greg, nodding up at the three-storey house. “Well. Top floor.” It was the best he could do after the divorce, unless he’d shared a place. _Too old for that malarkey._ It’s not too far from the centre; a longish walk to work, but God knows he needs the exercise.

Mycroft follows him silently up two flights of stairs. Greg shuts the door of his flat after them, pushes off his shoes and gestures around. “Not much, but.” He shrugs. Thank goodness, whoever built the house had put skylights in the roof. Greg had repainted it all white when he moved in, taking satisfaction in the quiet, mindless work. On a day like this it’s bright, and calm, and it doesn’t look too bad. You can see the park.

He steps quickly over to the sink, where a pan and plates from breakfast are still piled. He runs the water. “Sorry. Didn’t know you’d be coming. Didn’t – y’know. Shall I put the kettle on? This’ll be washed up by the time we’ve got a cuppa –”

He knows he’s talking too fast, pretending things are normal, trying to postpone the inevitable. _He’s going to put a stop to it. This. Us. He’s going to say he doesn’t want a soulmate._ He turns to pick up the kettle.

Mycroft’s hand on his arm shocks Greg into stillness. He looks up. Mycroft is frowning slightly, looking at Greg’s mark.

“What?” asks Greg, shakily.

Mycroft doesn’t make eye contact, but he lays his hand on the side of Greg’s neck.

Greg’s heart is pounding. _He must be able to feel my pulse._

Slowly, very slowly, Mycroft dips his head; there’s a moment where Greg feels breath across his lips, and then there’s the softest brush of skin –

Greg isn’t entirely sure this is happening.

Mycroft’s lips press a little harder against his own, and tentatively, Greg kisses back.

His stomach feels like it’s melting, dissolving with surprise and arousal and _fuck, this is happening, Mycroft’s kissing me_ –

Greg pulls back. Their hands have found one another; their marks are together. Greg can feel the soft, warm calm that comes with it, the feeling of _we’re okay, we’re together_ –

Mycroft still won’t meet his eyes.

_And that’s not right, is it?_

“Mycroft?” Greg wants to touch his chin, force him to look up. Instead he withdraws his hand; takes a half-step back. “What’s going on?”

Mycroft turns his head to the side, looking down.

“Seriously, Mycroft –” Greg clears his throat. “What –” And then it hits him. “Jesus Christ. Is that what you think I _want?”_ He knows it sounds too harsh, even as he says it. His voice is rough with confusion and unhappiness.

Mycroft flinches, slightly, and turns his head a couple of millimetres further away.

_Fuck. God. He withdraws exactly like his brother._

“I’m sorry,” says Greg, immediately. He holds out his left hand, not touching; just waiting. “I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to – I shouldn’t’ve –” He runs his right hand through his hair. “Fuck, though, Mycroft,” he adds, softly. “’M’not – this isn’t some – when I said I thought you were gorgeous, that wasn’t some kind of…”

He reaches his left hand a little further towards Mycroft’s right. “Please. Let’s – let’s just talk, yeah?”

There’s a long, silent moment.

At last, Greg takes a couple of steps back. He takes a seat at the tiny kitchen table. “Will you put the kettle on? I really need a brew.”

Relief written in every movement, Mycroft turns away; takes up the kettle, fills it, and sets it boiling. He braces both hands on the edge of the counter, shoulders high and tight.

“Hey,” says Greg, gently. “Will you come’n sit with me?”

Reluctantly, Mycroft moves over to the table, pulls out the chair opposite and sits. He crosses his legs primly, avoiding eye contact.

Greg runs his hand through his hair again. His stomach feels cold and heavy. “You know I’d much rather be kissing you right now?” he asks, with as much humour as he can muster.

Mycroft’s expression twitches into a disbelieving half-smile.

“Look at me.” Greg uses the voice that always makes Sherlock pay attention; the one that brings Sally up short.

Mycroft’s grey eyes lift, reluctantly, to meet his. There is a defiantly sardonic spark in their depths that says: _this is a cheap trick. It won’t work on me._

“Believe it,” says Greg, calmly.

Mycroft watches him, eyes sharp; then blinks, three times.

“Back at the pub it seemed like you wanted this to be over,” says Greg. “Or – well. Maybe like you wish it’d never happened.”

Mycroft’s gaze drops to the tabletop. “As is _abundantly_ clear, I have no conception of how this is supposed to –” he pauses, presses his lips together. “Develop.”

Behind him, the kettle boils.

“Mycroft…” Greg reaches out across the table, ink-splash mark bright against his skin. “You’re – I dunno. Shutting off. An’ it’s not like _I_ know what’s right either, is it? Maybe we should’ve kept kissing – maybe even – well, the bed’s right through there, God knows the flat’s not big –” he nods to the bedroom door, huffing bitter amusement. “But you couldn’t even look at me. Maybe we’d’ve had some kind of magical soulmate sex an’ everything would’ve been a fairytale forever, but I’ve never had sex with someone before who couldn’t even look me in the eye, an’ I can’t say I’m that keen to start now.”

Mycroft looks up; seems as though he might speak; and does not.

“Tell me. Please.” Greg’s voice twists. “And _please_ give me your hand.”

Slowly, Mycroft puts his right hand into Greg’s left.

Immediately, the stifling pressure in Greg’s chest seems to ease, slightly. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

“I – apologise,” says Mycroft, haltingly.

Greg squeezes his hand, and takes a breath. “Thanks. And – that wasn’t me…y’know, rejecting you. I just want us to be – _both_ of us…” He sighs. _Jesus Christ. At least try and talk properly._ “So you didn’t – mind? When I said you’re –” He half-laughs. “I didn’t even know if you’re – um. Attracted to men.”

“Exclusively,” says Mycroft, drily.

“Right.” Greg smiles at him, gently. “Not that it always matters with soulmates, I know.”

“I cannot deny that it would certainly have been – easier, had this not happened,” says Mycroft, in a rush.

Greg shrugs, one-shouldered. “I get that.” He squeezes Mycroft’s hand, waiting for him to look up. “I’m so glad though.” He can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. “So _fucking_ glad, Mycroft.”

“Even now you know that it is me.” Mycroft does not quite make it into a question.

Greg rolls his eyes, still grinning. “You hadn’t got that yet?”

There’s a long, silent moment. Mycroft just looks at him, seemingly unsure what to say.

“’M’gonna make that tea,” says Greg. “Then we’ll just – put something on, yeah? Talk. Get to know each other.” He stands up and lifts Mycroft’s hand, placing a gentle kiss on the delicate, latticed mark. “We’ve got plenty of time.”


	13. Chapter 13

Greg hands Mycroft the cup of tea, smiles at him, and takes a seat at the other end of the sofa.

Mycroft goes to take a sip, hesitates, and lowers the mug again.

Greg wonders whether, if he’d been alone, he would’ve blown across the surface of the tea. He tucks his feet up onto the sofa.

“You escaped _Shrek: The Musical,_ then,” he smiles.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “I did.”

“’S’out of interest,” grins Greg, “how many _have_ you had to go to?”

Mycroft’s eyes roll, and his lips press into a tight line. “Too many.”

“Best one?”

“Not applicable.”

Greg laughs. “Oh, come on.”

“If I must choose – _The 39 Steps.”_

“Nice. Worst one?”

_“Aladdin.”_

Greg snorts. “How the _hell_ did they manage to get you to _Aladdin?”_

“A combination of blackmail and rank betrayal on Sherlock’s part. Payback for my tricking him into escorting our mother to her eighth viewing of _Les Miserables.”_

Greg laughs. “God. You’ve seen that one as well then, I s’pose.”

“Yes,” sighs Mycroft.

“And it’s…”

“Extremely long. I could have seen an opera in the same time.”

Greg makes a face. “That more your thing?”

Mycroft’s expression shutters slightly. He wraps his long fingers around the curve of the mug. “Yes.” He looks down at the surface of his tea.

Greg wants to take his hand; bring their marks together. “Never been to one.” He stretches his leg across the space between them on the sofa; pokes Mycroft gently in the thigh with his toes. “You could take me. Promise I’ll dress up properly an’ everything.”

Mycroft blinks, but does not look up. “There is no need –”

Greg’s heart clutches in his chest. _He thinks I was making fun of him for liking something so posh._ His toes are still softly resting against Mycroft’s hip. “It’d be fun. Never been because I reckon I won’t understand what’s going on, an’ I’ll prob’ly stick out like a sore thumb in a place like that. But you’ll tell me the plot, right?” He grins. _“Pretty Woman_ moment. Maybe I’ll love it.”

Mycroft glances up, eyebrow raised. “Pardon?”

“You’ve never seen _Pretty Woman?”_ exclaims Greg. He bites back the words he’d been about to say: _‘my ex’s favourite film’._

Mycroft looks back at his tea. “Never.”

“Er – right, okay, well ’s’gonna sound weird –” Greg grins. “Basically this guy hires an escort for a week to give him the girlfriend experience an’ he takes her to the opera an’ she loves it –”

Mycroft glances up. “And you are comparing yourself to a sex worker in this scenario –?”

Greg snorts a laugh. “Told you it’d sound weird. But ’s’a good film. Promise. You take me to the opera an’ I’ll make you watch that.”

Mycroft takes a sip of tea, then bites his bottom lip.

“What?” asks Greg, gently.

“I –” Mycroft hesitates. When he continues, he has taken refuge in the blank tones of a politician. “Committed relationships, I understand, succeed due to shared interests. Not a – a _mark_ which obliges one to –”

Greg’s heart sinks. “I dunno,” he says, slowly. “That’s not – really how my sister’s marriage goes. With the –” he hesitates before using the word, “soulbond, I mean.”

For a moment, Mycroft does not react. Then he blinks. “How does it?” he says, eventually. Greg’s heart squeezes at the vulnerability of the question.

“They – I mean, they don’t love all the same stuff. They found out they were soulmates right at the start of a blind date, an’ they never really got as far as all the – sharing hobbies, figuring out what films you both like, an’ all that. I mean, they know now, but back then…they just…” Greg sighs, and runs his hand through his hair. “I mean, my sister loves detective shows. She’ll watch ’em all, even the really shit ones. Gary’s not that fussed. But he’ll always sit next to her, play with the kids or listen to music or whatever. It’s like they –” he clears his throat. “’S’like they’re only happy when they’re together. Not that the rest of the time’s tragic or anything, just – they love being together. Makes them…” he trails off, lamely. “Y’know. They just – love each other.”

Mycroft takes a sip of tea; hesitates. “I see,” he says, at last.

“C’n I ask you something cheeky?” asks Greg, trying to ignore the way his heart is hammering in his chest.

“I – yes,” says Mycroft, cautiously.

“Did you – before all this – did you find me attractive? Or…”

Mycroft’s quick glance is accompanied by a wry twist at the corner of his mouth. “Gregory.”

Greg’s stomach twists, and his question must have shown on his face.

“You are objectively a very good-looking man.”

_Maybe once._ Greg tries to breathe normally. “And – not objectively?” he asks, staring fixedly at Mycroft’s long fingers, tight around the mug.

Mycroft clears his throat slightly. “I – did. You are.” He turns his head away, and maybe it’s Greg’s imagination that there’s a pink flush to his cheek.

It suddenly feels unbearably awkward for Greg’s toes to be resting against Mycroft’s hip; and unbearably awkward for him to withdraw his foot, too. There’s a long, breathless moment.

“I know it wasn’t – but – ’m’still glad you –” Greg swallows, “– kissed me.”

Mycroft half-shakes his head. “I should apologise,” he returns, without looking at Greg. “It was not –”

“No, no, Mycroft, I –” Greg shifts closer, crossing his legs and putting his hand on Mycroft’s arm. “You know I wasn’t – I just –” he sighs, and leans over to put his tea down on the coffee table. “I know all this is freaking you out. And – an’ me, I s’pose, a bit. The whole – feeling forced by our bond thing – I get it. I really do. And I don’t want us to do anything unless – until – we’re both – y’know. Ready. Sure. _If_ we are.”

Mycroft does not look up at Greg, but he has turned slightly back towards him. He blinks, several times.

“’S’just – already a weird situation,” adds Greg, quietly. “Don’t want to make it – yeah.”

After a moment, Mycroft’s gaze flicks up to meet Greg’s. “Yes,” he says, simply, and there is relief written in his grey eyes.

Greg smiles at him, gently. _Can’t wait ’til the next time though, gorgeous._ His stomach flips, just thinking about it.

_‘I_ _–_ _did. You are.’_


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, guys, for your lovely comments and for sticking with me. Real Life has not left me much writing time lately. ❤️

"Anthea.” Mycroft says it calmly, coolly. Nevertheless her footsteps hurry on the other side of the door, and she does not pause to knock before opening it.

“Sir? Is everything alright?”

“I –” Mycroft hesitates, caught between his own professionalism and strange, animal fear. “In truth, I am – unsure.”

“Sir?” Anthea looks positively alarmed now. “Are you unwell?”

Mycroft feels sick and cold. It is taking everything he has not to shake. “I think perhaps I am, Anthea.” He swallows. “Without apparent cause.”

She looks more closely at him, then her gaze dips fractionally to his hand. The fingers of her left hand close softly around her right wrist, where her own mark resides – a cheerful splash of colour that she hides with long-sleeved monochrome blouses. _Judo,_ remembers Mycroft. _Her instructor. Five years, now._

“Sick, sir?” she asks, looking at him with a strangely gentle expression. “Chilly?”

“Yes.” Mycroft wants to shiver but controls himself rigidly.

Anthea hesitates; seems to resolve, at last, to speak. “Have you – been in touch with Detective Inspector Lestrade today?”

Mycroft shakes his head once, too sick for a pretence of ignorance. “Yesterday.”

“Then –” Anthea clears her throat slightly. “Allow me to ascertain his whereabouts, sir. It is likely that he has suffered some minor injury.” She speaks smoothly, calmly; and Mycroft’s heart feels as though it may cease to beat.

“Injury.” His lips are tight; he can hardly force out the word. _Minor? He is a police officer. Anything could have happened._ Nausea rolls through him in a slick, slow wave.

“It –” Anthea seems lost for words. “Just a few moments, sir, please. Drink some water, if you can. I shall – Sergeant Donovan will –”

Mycroft leans back in his chair, suddenly dizzy; he breathes slowly, willing himself to concentrate on Anthea’s voice, back at her desk. _Gregory, injured – killed? Or – surely not killed – I should be aware –_  

By the time she returns, Mycroft has mastered himself a little.

“Concussion,” says Anthea, her voice full of relief. “He is under observation at the Royal London. Sergeant Donovan assures me that he will discharge himself before long, if the nurses do not do so.”

Mycroft takes a long, ragged breath. The nausea does not fade. His heart is pounding. “How –”

“A thug with a homemade cosh, Sir.”

“Good god.” Mycroft stares blankly at the paperwork in front of him. _That such a man might have – that he should have dared – Gregory –_

“Your car is outside, Mr Holmes,” says Anthea, and her voice has returned to its accustomed rigid professionalism.

He glances up, and he knows that his gratefulness, his desperation, must be written across his face. He curls his right hand, protectively; touches the dusted, latticed mark with the pad of his thumb. He cannot speak, so he nods, and stands; pulls on his coat.

He breathes slow and deep throughout the car journey, fighting nausea. Anthea texts him: **A &E. Still under observation.**

At the A&E reception desk, Mycroft asks for Detective Inspector Lestrade, trying for his usual clipped tones.

The receptionist eyes him; checks her screen. “He’s in a consulting room,” she says, bluntly, clearly in a rush to clear the queue forming behind him. “You can wait out here.” Her accent is a soft mix of the Caribbean and London.

Mycroft takes a breath; wills himself not to either lose his temper or cry. He walks a tightrope between: he could lose his balance, fall one way or another. He has not broken down in years.

He closes his eyes a moment, and opens his right hand on the dull plastic surface of the reception counter. He finds her small brown eyes; begs her, silently, to understand.

She frowns, looks down, and sees the mark. Her expression changes; clears. She glances up at him with sympathy. “You’re really not meant to go in.” She taps a couple of keys. “Looks like the doctor won’t be back for a while, though.” She nods at the ugly blue doors to Mycroft’s left. “Through there. Consulting room eighteen. First right, then second left.”

“Thank you.” His voice sounds hoarse, harsh – unrecognisable. She nods at him kindly, and looks to the next patient.

_First right, second left._ Even these simple instructions seem dim and confused to Mycroft. He clings to them, an internal chant, as he makes his way past one ugly cubicle after another; he hears a child crying as he passes.

When he finds Greg’s voice, he stops. He rests his right hand against the wall and leans there for a moment, just listening. He closes his eyes.

“How bloody long’s this going to take?” mutters Greg, and he sounds humorously annoyed; but there’s a slight slur to his words, a slight delay in their delivery, that makes Mycroft’s heart cold.

“Not long.” Donovan sounds patient; and that makes Mycroft fearful, too, because usually she and Greg are a well-oiled team, running on coffee, banter and the fond pretence of animosity.

“You said that half an hour ago,” he mumbles.

Mycroft cannot wait any longer. He steps forward, into the doorway.

“At las–” Greg stops, mid-word; the side of his head has a large white sticky bandage on it. He’s sitting on the edge of a consultation bed, legs dangling. His shoulders are hunched. He looks exhausted.

Mycroft can’t stop himself shaking any more, shivering as if he’ll never be warm again.

“Myc,” murmurs Greg softly. His eyes are warm. “What’re you doin’ here?”

_Myc. Gods above._ Mycroft takes one step into the room, his eyes fixed on Greg.

Donovan stands up. “I’ll just – go'n see where that doctor’s – er –” she says.

She closes the door behind her.

“’re you okay?” asks Greg, looking up at Mycroft with soft confusion. “Hospital,” he says, vaguely. “You alright?”

Mycroft closes his eyes for a moment; masters the tightness in his chest. “I – you.” He can’t say anything else. Just a few steps are necessary. Mycroft takes his hands; gathers them to his lips, and kisses Greg’s mark.

“Myc?”

“I – apologise,” he manages to force out. Slowly, he lets go of Greg’s hands. “Gregory –” his throat is tight.

“You don’ look well,” murmurs Greg, with gentle concern. “Pale.”

“No, no,” says Mycroft as firmly as he can manage. “I – became aware that you had suffered a concussion. And came to ascertain how I might help.”

“Oh.” Greg blinks. “’S’so nice of you, Myc. ’M’alright though. No bother. Out’f here soon, I s’pect.”

Mycroft swallows. “And – afterwards? You will return home?”

Greg waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah. Jus’ need a good night’s sleep.”

Mycroft hesitates. “Forgive me, Gregory – I am no doctor – but are you not meant to _avoid_ sleep, with a concussion?”

“Honestly, you’n Sally’re as bad as each other,” he says, but he can’t help a smile. “I’m _fine._ Just got to get that doctor who came ’round before to have one more look at me, then he said I can go home, take a paracetamol, an’ go to sleep.” Without seeming to think about it much, he reaches up and places his palm in the centre of Mycroft’s chest. “Just – he’s disappeared now. ’S’been ages.”

Mycroft can’t fight the urge. He lays his hand over Greg’s, holding it softly in place. “My car is outside,” he says quietly. “Pass the night at my flat. I shall not sleep soundly unless I know that you are safe.”

Greg looks at him, deep brown eyes wide. He blinks. “Honestly, Myc, ’s’fine,” he says, but Mycroft can hear it: _he’s grateful. He wants my company._

Greg bites his bottom lip. “If – um – m’not sure if –”

“Say.”

“I – I’d rather be at mine, if – but I know that might not be alright for you, for the morning –”

“Of course.” The door starts to open, and Mycroft takes a step back; Greg drops his hand back to the side of the bed, looking dazed.

“Now then, DI Lestrade,” says the doctor briskly. “Let’s check your eye response again –”

Mycroft texts Anthea. **Clear my morning meetings.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kindness and encouragement. ❤️

“Urgh. Hospitals always make me feel like I need a shower.” Greg sighs heavily as he unlocks the door of his flat. Inside, he slowly pushes off his shoes. Mycroft closes the door behind them.

“I c’n – make some tea,” yawns Greg. “’F’you want?” He shrugs off his coat. Exhaustion is evident in the sluggishness of his movements, the slope of his shoulders.

“Gregory.” Mycroft lays his hand gently on Greg’s arm. “Shower. Get ready for bed. I shall make us something quick to eat.” He unlaces his shoes and pushes them off. “You have the painkillers the doctor gave you?”

“Oh, yeah. Coat pocket,” mutters Greg.

“I shall find them,” says Mycroft firmly. “Could you –” he hesitates a moment; then makes his voice as businesslike as possible. “It might be best if you left the bathroom door unlocked.”

“God, am I that old?” asks Greg, amusement tingeing the exhaustion in his voice. “D’you think I’m going to have a fall?”

Mycroft straightens up and rolls his eyes. “You have concussion.”

“Think there’s eggs in the fridge,” says Greg, on his way towards the bathroom. “An’ bread.”

Mycroft hangs his coat up alongside Greg’s, and pads into the kitchen. He sets the kettle boiling; finds the eggs, bread, and some butter. There is not much else in the fridge. He notices more about the kitchen, this time: a short line of copper saucepans hanging beneath the cupboards; a mug tree with a collection of mismatched – but not chipped – mugs.

The flat is pleasant, small but bright. It’s a little untidy, but clean. _He needs a bookshelf,_ thinks Mycroft, looking at the neat stacks of books on the floor near the small kitchen table. Several of them are cookbooks. On top of one stack lies a well-thumbed book on bread. Mycroft can see folded-down pages and floury thumbprints; crinkled edges where the book got wet and dried again, sometime in the past. _Well-used._

Something about this new fact – _Gregory enjoys baking bread_ – settles in his chest. For a moment, he stares at his mark, fingers wrapped around the handle of the kettle. It’s too easy to imagine: _the weekend. A day off. Sleep, and the smell of baking bread._

The shower is running; he listens carefully, head on one side. He can hear the water splashing irregularly, which must mean Gregory is still quite safe.

He deliberately does not think about that tanned body under the spray. With great concentration, he pours boiling water into one of the saucepans, and poaches four eggs.

Greg emerges as Mycroft is putting the toast on two plates. A quick glance tells him that he is wearing dark tartan pyjama bottoms and a soft light-grey jumper. The intimacy of it – the privacy – makes Mycroft’s head swim.

“’S’better,” says Greg. He still sounds tired, but not as beaten as he had before. “C'n I do anything?”

“You could butter the toast,” returns Mycroft, remembering that Greg’s painkillers are still in his coat pocket. “Would you like tea with this?”

“God, yeah,” smiles Greg. “I was craving a cup the whole time we were stuck in there. What a fuss.”

“Oh, I agree,” says Mycroft. “It would certainly have been better to return home and slip quietly into unconsciousness unattended. Less trouble for everyone.”

“Sarky git.”

“Would you expect anything different?” Mycroft finds the painkillers in Greg’s pocket, along with his phone. “Oh – no. Gregory, I am sorry – your phone screen appears to need replacing.”

Greg huffs wry amusement as he finishes buttering the toast. “Ha. Yeah, I saw that in the hospital. Fucker couldn’t’ve just concentrated on my head?”

“Your priorities are entirely skewed.” Mycroft returns to the kitchen and sets the kettle boiling again; places cutlery on both plates, followed by the poached eggs.

“Thank you,” says Greg, as Mycroft passes him his phone. “To be honest it was probably time for a new one anyway. Had this one a few years.” He contemplates the cracked screen, then pushes the phone into the pocket of his pyjama bottoms.

Mycroft carries the cups of tea over to the table, hesitating when he can’t see coasters.

“Just put ’em down,” grins Greg. “What d'you think this is? Some kind of fancy establishment?” He puts the plates on the table, and takes a seat.

Mycroft sips his tea, suddenly nervous. _Am I staying here? I have no night clothes, no toiletries – clothes for work are not a problem, I have a spare suit in the office, but –_

_– I certainly have no desire to leave Gregory alone in such a state. I should not forgive myself if something happened to him which my presence might prevent._

He thinks again of the cold, sick fear that had possessed him; of the terror that had gripped his heart. He watches Greg eat, lost in the details of him: the round curve of his earlobe, the lighter silver of his hair at the temples, the expanse of tanned neck suddenly on view, now that he is not wearing a shirt.

“God, this is great. Jus’ what I needed.” Greg swallows a mouthful and looks up; takes a swig of tea. He frowns slightly. “You alright? You’re not eating.”

“I am fine.” Mycroft gives a quick smile, knowing that it has come out tight and insincere, tinged with the memory of his fear.

Greg puts down his knife and fork. “You’re not.” He holds out his left hand, flat on the tabletop.

Mycroft puts down his mug of tea, and places his hand into Greg’s. The feeling is immediate, a powerful, dizzying rush of relief. He presses his eyes closed, attempting to keep control of his reactions.

“Hey.” Greg’s voice is gentle, but firm. “Tell me what’s going on?”

Mycroft takes a breath. Opens his eyes. He blinks, gaze running wonderingly once again over Greg’s face. He clears his throat. “It – transpires that there are some minor physiological effects,” he says, quietly. “When one’s – one’s _soulmate_ is hurt.” Greg’s eyes widen on ‘soulmate’. Mycroft can feel himself beginning to blush. “It was – somewhat disconcerting, until Anthea had ascertained that you were –” he swallows. _Alive._

“Oh.” Greg looks dazed. “That’s how you knew –”

“I – it was preferable that I see for myself,” Mycroft says, as calmly as possible. “I wished to – make sure.”

Greg squeezes his hand. “I was glad to see you,” he says, simply. “Explains why you looked so pale, too. I was worried _you_ were going to pass out, to be honest.”

“That would certainly not have been helpful,” says Mycroft, with a quick flick of a smile. He feels another quick squeeze of his fingers, then Greg pulls his hand away.

“Eat your dinner,” says Greg, firmly.

“I am looking after _you,_ Gregory,” returns Mycroft mildly, but he picks up his knife and fork all the same. The poached eggs spill rich orange yolk across his toast.

For a few minutes, they eat in companionable silence. Mycroft tries to stop himself from staring at Greg.

“D'you really want to stay over?” asks Greg.

Mycroft blinks, then raises his gaze. “If…”

“If you want to, I’ve got some spare pyjamas an’ a toothbrush,” says Greg. “You planning to wake me up every hour or something?”

Mycroft only realises it is a joke when he catches the crinkled corners of Greg’s deep brown eyes. “An excellent idea,” he says, deadpan. “I should never have thought of it, but since you have made the suggestion –”

Greg kicks him gently under the table. “Don’t you dare.”

Mycroft can’t suppress a smile. “You are not attending the office tomorrow, I hope?”

Greg’s eyebrows rise. “Planned to.”

Mycroft purses his lips. “Gregory. You need rest and recuperation.”

“Myc, I just got thumped on the head by a bastard. I’ve had much worse, believe me.” The sentence hangs in the air, the nickname spoken without thought. “Er,” says Greg. “Sorry, I – sort of got in the way of calling you that. In my head, I mean.”

Mycroft’s heart does a strange somersault in his chest. “No matter. And you were not ‘thumped on the head’. You were _coshed._ Be sensible, Gregory.”

Greg rolls his eyes. “Why? You offering to bring me breakfast in bed?”

“Certainly, if you consent to remain there.”

Greg’s face is a picture of surprise. “You got the morning off?”

“Yes.” Mycroft can feel the blush returning to his cheeks.

“Oh.” Greg’s dark eyes are wide. He blinks; frowns slightly. “Myc. Thanks,” he says at last, gently. When Mycroft doesn’t reply, he finishes his eggs and toast, his tea.

Silently, Mycroft takes the plates and starts to wash up.

“Hey,” says Greg. His hand rests softly between Mycroft’s shoulder blades. “I’ll get you those pyjamas.”

When Mycroft comes to bed, dressed in the unfamiliar pyjama bottoms and t-shirt, Greg is already half-asleep; Mycroft turns off the light, and climbs quickly under the duvet.

Greg’s left hand finds Mycroft’s right in the darkness. The strange peace, the overwhelming relief, washes through him immediately.

“Must’ve been worried,” mumbles Greg.

Only after a few moments does Mycroft realise that it had been a kind of question. _I was afraid._ He holds tight to Greg’s hand. “Please try to avoid getting hurt, Gregory.”

“You too,” mumbles Greg. “’S’keep safe, alright?”


End file.
